Die for My Man

A man grows

three feet a day

in my belly


he timbers

rising good gold

wetting the soft places

where I stretch and yearn

to accommodate him,

deform myself

for his very existence.

I feel strange

in the morning—

the man towering within

has unusual say

he bends my natural


the man speaks, in his

iodine adult voice,

tells me I am too small—

so he must exit

tearing my heart on his way—

left bereft missing

my internal man

wondering if he was simply

a scam.

Broken in two

no one comes to my rescue

I’ve died for my man.



Julene Tripp Weaver is a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle, WA. Her latest poetry book, truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards and won the Bisexual Book Award. Her work is online at The Seattle Review of Books, Poetry Pacific, Voices in the Wind, Antinarrative Journal; more of her writing can be found at www.julenetrippweaver.com or @trippweavepoet

even though it’s all switched off, a constant hum

the world is finally ending and everyone is in the street fucking

and we cling to this awful rock while somewhere a wild dog rips a child

to pieces, its jaws locking together like lovers hands on a cold night as they

explore the cartography on their wrists, laughing at the idea they

will ever be old and spitting softly in aching, welcome mouths

the world is finally ending and everyone is in the street fucking,

a farewell sunset behind them and nothing ahead but the fire-black ribs

of their homes. the trees are burning like funeral pyres, the pine needles

crackle like a lonely radio. the roads are melting like hot tears

and the buildings are leering, beautiful.



Stuart Buck is a poet and artist living in North Wales. His debut collection of poetry, Casually Discussing the Infinite, peaked at 89 on Amazons World Poetry chart and his second book Become Something Frail will be released on Selcouth Station Press in 2019. When he is not writing or reading poetry, he likes to cook, juggle and listen to music. He suffers terribly from tsundoku – the art of buying copious amounts of books that he will never read.


red stiffens into a single sough

flush                      and plump, a spectacle stained from a pomegranate

split in two








Natasha Teymourian is a Brazilian poet and artist based in San Diego, where she got her BA in Literature & Writing Studies from California State University San Marcos. She is the Editor in Chief of Epigraph Press and author of Recurrent Events, published in 2018.


my head remembers your hair / the way it tangled with mine / your lips / my lips / the green of your bedspread / door left open / so we could hear if your mom / crept up the stairs / your lips / my lips / my tongue / your lips / your tongue

and my hand remembers your hand / your hand / your hand / your lips / your hand / your hand / your hand / the green album spinning in little circles / little circles / my hand / little circles / little circles / little circles / the record turns faster / faster / little circles / faster / faster / my hand / faster / circles / faster / circles / circles / lips / lips / hands / hips / faster / circles / circles / circles / circles / god / circles / god / faster / eyes / thighs / circles / breathe / god / slower / circles / circles / slower / slower / slower / breathe

I can’t remember a goddamn thing


Annaka Saari is a 20 year old writer from Jackson, Michigan. Currently, she resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan where she studies English at the University of Michigan. Her work has previously appeared in Ghost City Review and MICRO//MACRO. You can follow her on Twitter at @AnnakaSaari or go to her website at https://annakasaariwrites.wordpress.com.


blunt //// trauma // for // boy // blunt

// I fed // him // the // heaviest /////

////////// machine // the fattest finger

interface // orifice // blow // wand ////

boy mulch /// longitude /// socket lunch

//// 9 out of 10 underwear models // use

this // trick! /// in confidence I preferred

to raffle // prick // pinking shears /// or

whatever was handy // sucked out all ///

angles // no bind I couldn’t // eat myself

out of. // I was pious // in my // prayer.

a veritable // carwash! // we all know //

lucifer // was a fallen /////////// anal.

// at //times ///// it was hard // to tell

to whom // I was // speaking. ////////

///// an object // shaped // wife /////

or a // wife // shaped /////////object.



Sara Kachelman is a student of prose and bookmaking in Portland, Oregon. Her work has appeared in DIAGRAM, New South, Portland Review, and other journals. You can find her online at sarakachelman.com.

The Opposite of Deja Vu

Like I was dropped into my life
Through a tear in the universe tonight
Like the opposite of a deus ex machina
Or a deus ex machina on its head
Where I’m lying in bed
And staring up at a baby’s mobile
Of stars and new questions
About where it all came from
And turtles all the way down
Lying on their backs
Exposing psychedelic bellies
At three am
Because my ex called
And wanted to tell me
About doing shrooms in Joshua Tree
About the well of sadness in himself.
I expected to find myself there
But instead I’m nowhere
Not even when he wandered the desert
And spoke with the moon
Not even in the roosters crowing outside
Inexplicably, in the middle of Silverlake,
Tangent to the sloped intersection
By this parking lot they’ll never finish,
Not even in the human wet cries
Of the feral cats and kittens
In the alley below.
But as you lie sleeping
I’m caressing the void beside me
In the cacophony of sounds,
Caressing the hundred more universes
All sweaty and bellied up, non-existent,
Where I know exactly who I am
And what this is for
But don’t have you
Or instead have everything
Except questions
Or a silent version of this timeline
Or a purple one
And three slips into four am
And so on
Until the night drains
Out through the window
And you are awake wanting toast
And to contextualize me, effortlessly,
Before coffee and after a dream about a home
We both forgot.
Lexi Cary is a bi writer (w/b)itch and musician based in Los Angeles. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in DUM DUM Zine, Angel City Review, Always Crashing, and Germinal Mag. You can see more of her work at lexicary.com and @_lexicary on twitter and Instagram.

Desire, in Three Parts


There’s a certain pain to coming

apart, an emptiness that opens

up inside you that wasn’t there before

and you want him again

before he’s even out,

before you can feel him running

into the soft creases of your skin—


you leave it for a while,

picture it sinking into your body

like rain into parched earth

and then you imagine flowers


growing where there weren’t any before.



Some days, Jesus Christ,

I want you so badly it’s like a sickness

and I’m lost in fever dreams—


stretch me and crack me open

wide and explore me taste me

every inch of me and I’ll repay

in kind


i’ll open up to you

in ways i haven’t before and it hurts

but in a good way and the blood

feels like evidence of some

Holy Sacrament

and i certainly called on a higher power

when you gritted your teeth and pushed

our hips to fit

like cogs in a clock—

my body vibrated with the bell’s toll.



Now, my shirt still smells like you

from clinging to your chest so tightly

and pressing my face to your hot skin

to inhale a goodbye.


If I had a microscope, I could

find bits of you on me,

in me, and the thought makes me hold

myself a little tighter—

when I squeeze my eyes shut, it’s almost like I’m holding you again.




L.K. is a teacher living in Philadelphia and never wants her students to read this. She isn’t really a writer, but is horny more often than not. She thanks her long-distance relationship for inspiring this poem.

on being in love

being in love is like……….doing a presentation in class……
while you’re naked………….then you wake up from
the nightmare………just to go to class and do a presentation……
and suddenly you’re naked……then you do it again and again…
……love doesn’t necessarily make you do stupid things but
……it makes you want to do really stupid things like……
drink a bottle of nail polish……steal from your mum to buy a motorcycle
……tell your girlfriend you love them so much you want to be alive.
stupid stupid………stupid but worth it somehow……
is it even a romantic gesture to say…“you are so cool and smart
you make being alive a little less unbearable”
or is it just really weird………i love you i flushed my last xanax
it’s so humiliating to be in love i feel like an oversized toddler…
…………have you ever eaten a family sized pizza on your own
then immediately felt bad for eating a family sized pizza on your own
but also kind of victorious because you proved………something
……not sure what maybe that nothing can stop you…
your hunger has no limits you can make yourself sick you
……can do everything as long as it means flirting with death…
being in love is like your parents……catching you having sex…
and staring till you cum……but you can’t cum with them staring…
so it never ends……being in love i don’t know……i don’t know…



helga floros likes pepsi max and baking muffins. they have work in occulum, peach mag, witchcraft magazine, & elsewhere. they tweet @helgafloros


The strap-on rested between my legs. It was weighty. I pretended I could feel it when I moved my hand up and down the whole length of it, like it was really part of me. In the mirror I couldn’t help but admire it. It was beautiful in a way; soft pastel pink and long, a flamingo neck or milkshake straw, an extension of myself. I liked the angle in which it hung away from the rest of me; straight out with slight droop . In OSHA they advise you to position ladders at 45 degree angles to make the climbing easiest. That was my strap-on too; 45 degrees and it’s the first time I’ve ever felt sturdy enough to be considered a wall, proud to support whoever would take that climb. I liked how little my body looked and how powerful the strap-on made it appear, becoming a thick knot of muscle;capable, a pitbull, or jaguar, all prowess and strength.

All of the people I’ve known to have a real one had been drenched in taking, and I had been what was took. There is something about being the one who enters that says pioneer and the one who is entered that says room; the door knocked down and boot-marks on the hardwood floor. But I don’t want to pioneer or conquer; I want to enter on tiptoe. I want to cum with tenderness. My strap-on can be as gentle as my pussy and I need you to know that. There will be no taking here, I will not take anything from you. When you lay down for me I do not see a buffet in the way men have made a feast of me.

McKenzie Hurder is a new poet just beginning in Boston! She’s interested in the interiority of the self and how feminity shapes experiences. She believes writing is  a healing process as well as a gratitude process. Follow her on instagram @elwyn_esque

Afterburn & Girl On Top


I pop cinnamon Altoids
In my mouth at the stop sign
before your house.
In three minutes it will taste like alcohol
or maybe the memory of that time I got drunk
on fireball after learning
that you hit on my friend
when we were not actually together,
when we were nothing.

We are still nothing
but even more than nothing now
and I bite the Altoid between
my teeth, feeling it burn the soft tissue
of my cheek as I turn:
into your driveway,
the key in your lock,
the deadbolt behind me.
I take off my shoes and climb into your bed.

We have always been nothing, I think.
Cinnamon-flavored saliva stings
the back of my throat and I remember
the sting of wanting all of your somethings,
but not knowing how to be around you,
not knowing how to be what you wanted
of me. Now, I am exactly that girl,
but not exactly your girl.
I hear the shower door slip in its track.

We will always be nothing
in the existential sense
but in the sense, too, of this void
we live in, this space where we lay,
this little box we keep handy
and in the sense 
that we are solid, sweet, necessary
but the moment mouths touch
we begin to melt, to dissolve.

Girl On Top

this is the most vulnerable
I will ever feel:
my knees pressed tight
against your thighs.

it is no power position;
I can look nowhere else
but in your watered-down
brown eyes.

this is feigned intimacy: my hands
on your chest, searching
for a support they will
not find.

your fingertips resting between ribs
drawing yourself in
to what feels like home but
cannot be.

how is it that you are
still in charge,
even when I have you
pinned down?



Isabella’s “official” bio will tell you that she listen to a whole bunch of 90’s alternative, that she hate poetry rules and writes a lot about sex and anxiety. It’ll tell you, too, that she lives in Michigan and has a chapbook coming in January from Finishing Line Press. You can find a whole lot of that information on her website, and her social media pages.